Heart attack at seventy-two.
Luis lived long enough to complain about the funeral music.
Then he died three years later.
Hank attended both services.
At Ray’s funeral he noticed something strange.
Grief no longer made him think only about what had ended.
It made him think about what had existed.
Perhaps that was age.
Perhaps Daniel had taught him.
Perhaps Eli had.
Hank reached seventy-eight.
He no longer rode.
The motorcycle remained in his garage.
Clean.
Polished.
The white drawing still visible.
One Saturday morning, a car stopped outside.
Eli stepped out.
Thirty-one now.
Beard.
Brown hair beneath a backward cap.
A small break through his left eyebrow from a childhood bicycle accident.
Hank looked at him and nearly laughed at genetics.
Then another door opened.
A little girl climbed out.
Five years old.
Curly brown hair.
Yellow sneakers.
A sketchbook clutched under one arm.
Hank stepped onto the porch.
Eli smiled.
“Hey, Grandpa.”
Hank looked at the girl.
She hid behind Eli’s leg.
“Who’s this?”
Eli looked down.
“You know.”
“I want an introduction.”
She peeked out.
“I’m Nora.”
Hank crouched carefully.
His knee was mostly metal and bad decisions now.
“I’m Hank.”
“I know.”
He paused.
“The lady said?”
Nora frowned.
“What lady?”
Eli laughed.
“Old joke.”
Hank smiled.
Nora looked toward the open garage.
“What’s under the blanket?”
Hank followed her gaze.
“Something important.”
“Can I see?”
Eli looked at him.
Hank stood.
“Come on.”
They entered the garage.
Hank removed the cover.
Nora stared at the black motorcycle.
Then at the white drawing.
She approached slowly.
“Who drew that?”
Hank pointed toward Eli.
“Your dad.”
Nora’s eyes widened.
“My dad can’t draw.”
“I can draw.”
“No.”
Eli looked offended.
Hank laughed.
Nora touched one finger near the oversized wheel.
“Who are they?”
Hank looked at Eli.
Eli looked back.
Hank answered.
“That’s your grandpa Daniel.”
Nora knew the name.
Photographs had done their work.
Stories too.
“And who’s the kid?”
“Your dad.”
She stared.
“My dad was little?”
“Unfortunately.”
Eli shook his head.
Nora looked at the rider.
“Grandpa Daniel liked motorcycles?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know him?”
Hank swallowed.
“Yes.”
“For a long time?”
“Not long enough.”
She considered this.
Then noticed the small initials near the bottom.
D.
E.
H.
“What’s that?”
Hank explained.
“Daniel.”
He pointed.
“Eli.”